


You're Not A Good Shot But I'm Worse

by lit_chick08



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin
Genre: Adultery, Angst, F/M, Past Abuse, Secret Relationship, Sequel, Sibling Incest
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-05-08
Updated: 2012-05-08
Packaged: 2017-11-05 01:14:07
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,298
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/400297
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lit_chick08/pseuds/lit_chick08
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Just because they survived the war doesn't mean the fighting is over.</p><p>A sequel to <a href="http://archiveofourown.org/works/393105">If This Was The Cold War, We Could Keep Each Other Warm</a></p>
            </blockquote>





	You're Not A Good Shot But I'm Worse

**Author's Note:**

> Title comes from "Good Man" by Josh Ritter

Tyrion Lannister and a retinue of men in Targaryen colors meet them on the docks. Robb is startled by the youngest Lannister's scarred appearance, but Sansa only smiles a smile he does not recognize and greets him in a voice which is not hers at all.

“Hello, wife,” Tyrion greets, his smile jovial but his mismatched eyes full of cunning as he looks upon the children in their arms. “And who might these little wolves be?”

“Our children,” Robb answers before Sansa can lie in an attempt to shield him from his actions, and if Tyrion is stunned, he doesn't show it. Instead he gestures to the horses he has brought for them to ride to the Keep, and Robbi is stunned to realize he has not sat a saddle since leaving the Vale five years earlier. He feels uneasy at first, but Cat giggles with delight, jabbering in a mishmash of Common Tongue and baby talk.

Sansa rides sidesaddle, Ned asleep in her arms, and Robb sees a change in her already. The pleasant lassitude in her limbs, the laughter in her face, and joy in her bright, blue eyes is gone, replaced by something Robb cannot name. She answers Tyrion's questions in this voice which seems empty of everything he loves about his sister, and Robb suddenly realizes why he recognizes this voice.

It is Alayne Stone's voice, the voice of a woman who is playing at being what men want her to be.

It is the voice of Robb's failures.

* * *

For all of the time he spent waging war, this is the first time Robb has ever seen the Red Keep. It is not as grand as he thought it would be; there are far more beautiful palaces in the Free Cities. But he can hear the thrashing of chains and shrieks coming from one of the hills, and Tyrion waves his hand dismissively, says it is just the queen's dragons. There is some sort of construction being done near the Keep, and Sansa asks, “What happened to the Tower of the Hand?”

“Wildfire,” is all Tyrion offers.

Robb notices Sansa does not look in the direction of the Great Sept of Baelor, and Robb feels a lump rise in his throat as he faces the last place where his father took his last breath. He finds himself holding Cat a bit tighter, wishing he could hold Ned and Sansa as well; this is not a place for families, not a place for his wife and children.

Except Sansa is not his wife. She is Tyrion Lannister's wife, his wife is Jeyne Westerling, and all Sansa can be now is his sister.

Robb isn't certain he remembers how to be her brother.

It is cool inside the castle; he can see Sansa shivering beneath her cloak, and Cat all but climbs inside his coat. Though the snows have melted, it is still winter, and significantly colder than in Lys. He rubs his hands over Cat's small body, and she presses her face against his neck, cuddling close.

“Cold, Papa,” she complains, and his heart breaks.

He likes being Papa, likes playing with his children and having them crawl into his bed, and he can feel it slipping away now that he has returned to life as Robb Stark, Lord of Winterfell, King in the North.

“Robb!”

It takes him a moment to realize the woman running towards him is Jeyne. She has grown more beautiful in the ensuing years, her dark hair intricately coiled in the Southron fashion. Cat lifts her head from his shoulder, staring at his wife in confusion, and Jeyne falters for a moment, her eyes flitting towards Sansa, who stands silently with Ned and Tyrion. Robb knows he should do something – reach for Jeyne, kiss her brow, offer an explanation – but he can't, not with Sansa here, not with his daughter in his arms. He remembers how he once felt for Jeyne, the all-encompassing desperation for connection, the only bright spot in his increasingly dismal days; she was so good and sweet, and she loved him well.

But the boy she loved died at the Twins, and Robb isn't sure she will be able to stand the man he has become.

He sees the direwolf before he sees his siblings. Black furred and massive, it comes loping towards them; Cat and Ned both scream in fright, but Robb feels peace settle in his limbs at the sight of Shaggydog. Even as Cat attempts to crawl up his shoulders, Robb bends down, ruffling the wolf's ears, pressing his face into the fur and inhaling the scent of the North.

Rickon comes first, Jon following close behind; Bran sits in a wheeled chair which Arya pushes, and Robb cannot hold back his tears. Rickon is nearly as tall as he is, auburn haired but fully Stark as he takes in his brother and sister. Robb remembers when he left Winterfell with his army; Rickon was hardly bigger than Cat, and he had cried, pleaded for him to stay. As Rickon stares at him, his face a complicated mixture of relief and anger, Robb swears he can feel the lingering despair he first felt at the Crag when word came that he and Bran were dead.

“They said you died,” Rickon grits out. Jeyne rests her hand on Rickon's shoulder, and Robb hopes Jeyne has tended to Rickon in his absence, provided him the love and affection which was stolen from him, from _all_ of them.

“They said _you_ died,” Robb offers in return.

Rickon hesitates, stutter steps as if he wants to hug him but doesn't; instead he looks at Sansa and, from the way his face crumples into tears, Robb knows he sees their mother, what little he remembers of her. As Jeyne finally moves forward to brush a kiss against his bearded jaw, Robb watches his siblings go to Sansa.

She speaks to them in Alayne's voice too.

* * *

The Dragon Queen is not what Robb expected her to be; she is his age, petite, silver-haired, and shockingly kind. She does not speak to him as if he is a potential enemy; she serves him the best cuts of meat and sincerely apologizes for all which has been done to his family. He is confused until she mentions Jon, a light blush high on her cheeks, and Robb wonders if the only reason he is sitting at Daenerys Tararyen's table is because his half-brother is the queen's lover.

“I don't care much for the North,” she confesses as Tyrion pours her more wine, the Hand pin on his shirt gleaming in the candlelight, “but your Northmen served me well against the Lannisters and Stannis Baratheon. I was going to give Winterfell to your brother Bran, name him as Warden of the North, but I have been told your men still want freedom from the Iron Throne.”

It has been years since he has had to play at being king; Robb finds it is as uncomfortable as it ever was. “With all due respect, Your Grace, those from the south do not understand the North. It's a different way of life.”

“It is,” Daenerys allows. She gestures to the knight of the Queensguard standing against the wall, the one whose face bears the mark of an unruly slave. “Ser Jorah is from Bear Island. His aunt and cousins served you.”

“House Mormont has always been loyal to the Starks.”

“I'll give you the North, Robb Stark,” Daenerys says after a beat, “and I will send men to help rebuild, but the North will bear the cost of it. Though independent, I only ask you swear an oath you will never raise banners against us.”

“As long as the South gives us no reason to do so, I will never come for your throne.”

Daenerys nods, the matter settled in her mind. Tyrion speaks of making arrangements to go North, sending ravens to the Northern lords, but all Robb can think of is Sansa. It is his thoughts of his sister which leads him to blurt out, “The High Septon will put aside your marriage before we leave for Winterfell.”

Tyrion looks at him from across the table, and Robb resists the urge to squirm beneath his knowing stare. Finally he says, “Our marriage was never a true marriage, and I harbor no ill will towards Sansa. I'll speak to the Septon.”

“I glimpsed your sister and her children earlier,” Daenerys offers, and Robb wonders if Tyrion has told her that Sansa's children are his as well. “She is even more beautiful than everyone has said. I am sure she'll make a fine marriage in the North.”

Sansa will never marry again.

There isn't much of which Robb is certain, but he does not doubt for even a moment that Sansa will never call another man “husband.”

* * *

Jeyne comes to his chambers every night that first week, wrapping her arms around him, whispering apologies and declarations of love, trying to stir him. He makes excuses as to why his body remains unresponsive, kissing her hair and insisting it is not her fault. Robb can see the hurt in her soft eyes, but he cannot tell her the truth.

“It will be different at Winterfell,” he swears, and Jeyne nods as if she understands something Robb isn't sure even he understands.

Jeyne stays with Daenerys's other ladies, and Robb finds he cannot sleep well inside the Keep. Some nights he goes to Jon's chambers, exchanging stories of the wars they fought; Bran joins them some nights, and there is more wisdom in his little brother than there is anyone else. Bran's stories terrify and fascinate him, and, as he describes the bond he has with Summer, Robb aches for Grey Wind, his body riddled with crossbow bolts and head removed long ago. Arya doesn't offer stories but then she rarely sleeps within the Keep; Jon's mouth twists into something which is both scowl and smirk as he mentions some bastard knight Arya keeps close. In Robb's mind, his siblings had stopped aging at the last moment he saw them; he could not reconcile the little Arya of memory with a woman who took a knight to her bed.

He never seeks out Sansa's chambers. The temptation is too great, and Robb has never been a man of great self-control.

Cat and Ned share a chamber next to Sansa's, and, on this particular night, Robb finds himself opening the door as quietly as possible, hoping not to disturb the children's sleep. From the moment Cat was born, Robb has been alternately fascinated and terrified by his children; he loves them ferociously, would go through all seven hells to protect them, but he still feels the lingering guilt of their conception. Jaime Lannister got children on his sister, and the people despised him; every man and woman in the Seven Kingdoms knew it is the most unnatural urge to lie with your sister.

His children are safely nestled in the bed, the blankets and furs tucked tightly around their small bodies; Ned's curls are sticking to his sweaty forehead and Cat's thumb is firmly in her mouth. Robb ghosts his hand over their heads, bending to brush kisses against their soft skin; he has seen so little of them since arriving in King's Landing, and it bothers him greatly. It is hard business trying to rebuild a kingdom from afar, the preparations to return to Winterfell taking far longer than he'd like. People whisper about the children; Tyrion has not said a word about Robb's confession on the docks, and everyone believes Sansa was abandoned by an unsuitable Lysene man. Robb does not know how they explain the children calling him “Papa;” he suspects Arya has figured it out, her sharp grey eyes always seeming to watch his interactions with Sansa more closely than she does with others.

Bran may be able to see through trees and animals, but Arya's vision concerns him much more.

“You cannot sleep either?”

Robb starts as he realizes Sansa is standing on the far side of the room, hidden in shadows; as she steps into the muted light of the chamber, he sees she is in a nightgown, her hair plaited into one, long braid. In that moment, she looks more like Catelyn Stark than she ever has; even the exhaustion in her blue eyes is the same.

“My bed is too big,” he quips, and Sansa chuckles as he knew she would. Their bed in Lys had hardly been large enough for the two of them, but it was all they could afford; many nights were spent with tangled limbs and the lingering threat of spilling over the edge.

“Mine is too small.”

“Too small?”

“Rickon is currently in it. He comes for stories and always falls asleep there. I haven't the heart to wake him.”

“What stories does he want to hear?”

“The stories of who we used to be. He likes to hear about Mother and Father; he doesn't remember much of them.” Sansa looks at the children curled together in the bed and sighs. “I cannot imagine what it was like for her to go to war with you and leave Bran and Rickon. She was so brave.”

They never discussed their parents in Lys; to do so was to acknowledge their true relationship, to acknowledge how wrong it was to love the way they did. “ _You_ are brave.”

“High praise coming from the Young Wolf.” Her mouth twists into a smile which is both teasing and irritated. “All the ladies are aflutter at your return. Jeyne pretends to be jealous, but I think she is secretly pleased you are so desired.”

“I'll spare you what the men say about you.”

“I know what the men say about me; they've been saying it since I was hardly more than a child.” She laughs mirthlessly. “You should hear what they whisper _to_ me. It would burn your ears.”

“Who?” he demands, anger burning in his chest, his voice too loud. Sansa shushes him, presses fingers to his lips with an amused smile.

“If you wake the children, I'll beat you. It took me forever as it was; neither of them feel well.”

Grasping her wrist, pulling it away from his mouth, he repeats in a softer tone, the threat implicit in his voice, “Who has been saying things to you?”

“Who wishes to know, my brother or my king?”

It strikes him that these are the only definitions available to him now: family or fealty. He can be angry as her brother, wanting to guard her honor, or angry as her king, wanting to chastise a man who would dare approach a princess of Winterfell, but he cannot be angry because he is jealous.

“You deserve respect,” is all he can manage.

She drops her gaze, auburn hair spilling across her cheekbones, and Robb feels his skin itch with the urge to touch her, to cup her face and kiss her, to take her back to his chamber and sleep beside her the way they have for the past five years. He just wants to feel normal again.

Sansa is what is normal, and that may be the most troubling thing of all.

* * *

Petyr Baelish comes to court, and Sansa disappears.

He doesn't notice at first; the hall is loud and busy, conversation and music making it impossible to hear your own thoughts. Jeyne pulls him out for a dance, and, when they are finished, he realizes Sansa is no longer there. Lord Baelish is conversing with Tyrion, neither man looking particularly pleased, and, when he asks Jon if he has seen Sansa, his brother shakes his head. It is Rickon who volunteers that she left with a skin of wine; Robb can count on one hand the number of times he has seen Sansa drink to excess, and it immediately worries him.

“Where could she be?” Robb asks in frustration after searching her room and the children's proved fruitless.

Jon shrugs. “Is this like her? Does she often wander away?”

“No, she would never make me worry like this.”

It is Jon who spots her first, standing on the traitors' walkway, her skirts flapping with the wind. Robb can see the uneasy sway of her body, knows she is drunk, and, as he sees the severity of the drop to the ground below, genuine fear clutches him. When she sees the pair of them, she lifts her hand, pointing a finger to one of the pikes atop the wall.

“Septa Mordane's head was there. Vayon Poole's was there. And Father's head, it was here. His eyes were open. He almost looked...surprised.”

Robb feels bile sting in his throat at the scene she describes. “Sansa...”

“Joffrey brought me here so I could see. And when I displeased him, he had Meryn Trant hit me. Have you ever been hit in the face with a mailed hand? It feels like your bones will shatter like glass.” She sways unsteadily, and Robb rushes forward, clutching her elbow to steady her. “Sometimes they beat me so badly, I wished they would just kill me so it could be done.”

“It's dangerous up here, my love. Why don't we - “

“I thought he was rescuing me,” she rushes on, and Robb now understands Sansa has reached her breaking point, that she needs to purge herself of all the things she has never shared. “I thought he was going to protect me, but he was worse. He made me _do_ things, and I couldn't say no because then he'd send me back to Cersei and she'd cut off my head too.”

She feels so slight when he pulls her into his arms, holding her as tightly as he can, wanting to make her feel safe and fearing it would always be impossible. “No one will hurt you, Sansa. I swear it.”

“I didn't want to do it,” she whimpered against his ear, her tears hot against his skin. “He'd call me Mother's name and I hated it so much but had to pretend I liked it. But I didn't like it, Robb, I didn't.”

“I know, love. It wasn't your fault. You were so brave.”

“I want to go home. I don't want him here. I don't want to be here.”

Robb carefully scoops her legs, holding her as if she is as small as Cat; Jon watches, his face telegraphing the anger Robb feels, and Robb loves his brother so much in that moment. “We leave for Winterfell in a few weeks, and you will never have to see him again.”

“No, I want to go _home_ , Robb, _our_ home.”

Robb understands she means Lys, the little cottage overlooking the water, the place where he is Mikael and she is Ruby and the horrors perpetrated against Robb and Sansa do not exist. He sees the way Jon averts his eyes, and Robb understands then that Jon _knows_.

He places Sansa in the bed in his chambers, Ghost curling up on the mattress with an explicit order from Jon not to leave. It takes Jon physically throwing him against a wall to stop him from marching back into the hall and murdering Petyr Baelish, and even then Robb shakes with his fury, his desire for blood never so high. He cannot explain to Jon what Sansa was like when he stole her from the Vale, how skittish and sad; he will never understand what it was like to look into Sansa's eyes and see nothing but shadows.

As he rages against all the injustices committed against Sansa, Arya enters Jon's solar, listening but not saying a word. He cannot remember the last time he actually heard Arya speak; he isn't even sure she _does_ anymore.

Two days later, one of the Tyrells' hounds tears out Petyr Baelish's throat, spraying his blood all over the stone. Women shriek and Willas Tyrell insists none of his dogs have ever behaved thus, and everyone agrees it is a terrible turn of fortune for poor Lord Baelish. Only Robb sees Arya standing on the edge of the crowd, the suggestion of a smile on her lips.

“Did you kill Lord Baelish?” he asks her later.

She looks at him as if he is mad, but he can still see his baby sister in her hard grey eyes, still sees the girl who used to get into mischief at Winterfell and claim innocence with pride in her eyes. “How could I make a dog go rabid?”

Robb does not have an answer but he knows in his bones Arya arranged Petyr Baelish's death.

He does not know how to thank her and she would not want it anyway. Arya may love all of them fiercely, but she does not _need_.

Robb fears he needs too much.

* * *

Jeyne finally asks the question he has been dreading just days before they are to leave for Winterfell. 

He is chasing Cat and Ned around his solar, delighting in their squeals of laughter, when Jeyne enters, watching without a word. When he scoops them into his arms, pressing kisses to their faces and making them giggle even harder, Jeyne studies her skirts; the septa Daenerys has procured for them comes to claim the children to ready them for bed, and, while Ned goes easily into her arms, Cat stubbornly clings to him.

“Stay, Papa, stay!”

It takes gentle wheedling, slight bribery, and a dozen kisses before Cat goes willingly, and, when he joins Jeyne at the table, he sees a tremble in her hands as she reaches for the skin of wine. 

“Are you well?”

Jeyne looks at him, her brow furrowed, as if trying to divine the proper answer. When she finally speaks, he unkindly wishes she hadn't. “Why do Sansa's children call you Papa?”

It would be easy to lie; Robb suspects Jeyne would prefer it rather than heaping more unhappy truths upon her. But he has always despised deception and Jeyne deserves better than lies. 

“Because I am their father.”

“By blood?”

“Yes.”

Jeyne is very still then, her face revealing nothing. Robb feels the impulse to explain, but he does not have the words and, even if he did, he cannot begin to quantify what exists between himself and Sansa. He waits for what comes next, expecting shouts or recriminations, but instead Jeyne calmly sips her wine.

“It must have been very difficult to be in the Free Cities with only each other.”

This time, _he_ says nothing.

“The war made us all do things we never expected, never would have dreamed of doing before it started. I can forgive you this.”

Robb wishes the women in his life were not so quick to absolve him of his sins.

* * *

The night before they leave for Winterfell, Daenerys holds a feast to celebrate House Stark. Robb drinks too much as he laughs with his brothers, and the world starts to blur around the edges. He almost feels like the man he was before the war, almost believes there can truly be an end to all the things which haunt him.

And then he sees Sansa leaving the hall with Willas Tyrell.

Until this moment, he liked the heir of Highgarden. The Tyrells are blatant in their desire for power, but Willas has always been kind, has seemed to be less like his more ambitious family members. He waits for Sansa to return, but soon it is obvious neither his sister nor Mace Tyrell's heir is returning to the feast.

Robb likes Willas Tyrell, but the idea of him touching Sansa makes Robb's blood boil.

Jon tells him not to go, clutching his forearm tight and looking pointedly at Jeyne, who is talking to Bran. But he cannot, too drunk on wine and anger to remain in the hall while Willas Tyrell is doing the gods only know what to Sansa. Jon shakes his head as Robb leaves, swearing to make an excuse should Jeyne ask after him.

Sansa's door is not barred, and, when he throws it open, the last thing he expects is to find Sansa taking down her hair, Willas nowhere to be seen. She starts at his abrupt entry before asking, “Is something wrong?”

“You left.”

“I don't like to be around those people, especially once they've started drinking.” She smirks as he shuffles unsteadily towards her. “Though it seems you quite enjoyed the Dornish wine.”

“You left with Willas.”

“He volunteered to escort me to my room.” Sliding the pins from her hair, neatly setting them on the vanity, she adds, “But if it had been more than that, you do not have the right to barge in and attempt to stop it.”

“I have every right.”

“Do you?” She is utterly calm as she turns to face him, and that has always been her most frustrating characteristic; Sansa never raises her voice in an argument, never shows a hint of temper, and it makes arguing with her utterly impossible. “Will you be barging into Arya's chambers tonight to make certain her blacksmith is not between her thighs?”

“It is different.”

“It is not. If one sister is allowed to conduct her affairs as she pleases - “

“Do not act as if you do not understand how this is different!”

Sansa freezes for a moment and then he sees her, the Sansa he knows, the one who has been hidden away from the moment they arrived in King's Landing. He cannot explain the change, but, when she meets his gaze, it is not his sister who looks back at him.

“So is this how it is to be then? We return to Winterfell, you ride triumphantly towards our home as King in the North with Jeyne by your side; you and Jeyne have little trueborn heirs, and what, I sit in my chambers and tend to the children with nothing to call my own?”

“That is not what I said.”

“No, but it is what you mean. _You_ can have a wife, _you_ can have someone to share your life and bed, but I must stand stoically by and never let another man touch me? Mayhaps you can build a maidenvault and keep me locked away where no man can find me.”

Chastened, Robb looks at the ground before softly confessing, “I cannot bear the idea of another man in your bed.”

“You think I enjoy the idea of Jeyne in yours?” He shudders at the feel of her hand on his cheek, lifting his face back to hers; her lips brush softly against his, more the suggestion of a kiss than anything else. “It will get easier.”

His hand settles on the softness of her hip, trying to urge her closer; Sansa steps into him, her hands resting on his chest. She presses her cheek to his, and he can feel a tear sliding down his cheek; he isn't sure which of them is crying.

“It will get easier,” she repeats.

Robb wonders who she is trying to convince.

* * *

Cat falls ill mere hours after they arrive at the ruins which were once Winterfell. While the men unload the supplies, Robb finds the chambers most untouched by fire; the bedclothes are musty, unchanged since the Boltons were removed, and Robb doesn't think twice about giving his mother's chambers to Sansa. It is the warmest room in the castle, and, as Cat shivers against her chest despite being bundled in furs, he sees the panic growing in Sansa's eyes.

By the next morning, Cat's body burns at hotly as wildfire, sweaty and pale; Sansa's hands shake as she rubs their daughter with a cool, wet rag, but it does nothing to soothe her fever. There is no maester at Winterfell; the Citadel is sending one, but he is still in the Riverlands, not due to arrive at Winterfell for another fortnight. Robb wishes for Old Nan, who could make drams which were more effective than Maester Luwin's, but both are gone now, and all that is left is his daughter.

He sends a raven to the Cerwyns but sends Jon as well with a royal order for use of their maester. Jeyne agrees to tend to Ned, something like pity in her eyes, and Robb knows his wife thinks Cat is going to die. Bran disappears into the godswood with Rickon to pray, and Arya say nothing, which is precisely what Robb wishes to hear. The men Daenerys has given him are already beginning the tasks of restoring Winterfell and Robb knows he should supervise, give instruction, but all he can think about is Cat. He lasts only a handful of hours before returning to Sansa's chambers. A tub of cool water sits on the floor, and Sansa is cradling Cat, pouring the water over her burning head, trying to cool the fever.

“Papa,” Cat whimpers pitifully, her little hands reaching for him, trying to twist from Sansa's arms to get out of the tub.

“No, sweetling, you have to stay in the water,” Sansa sighs, and Cat begins to cry, blubbering that she wants her papa and doesn't like the bath. Robb does not think twice; he begins to strip off his clothing, going down to his smallclothes before climbing into the tub. The water sends a shock through his body, too cold after a day spent outside, but Cat laughs in surprise before scurrying onto his chest, wrapping her arms around his neck.

Sansa presses the rag into his hand, and Robb begins to smooth it over Cat's back, trying not to flinch from the temperature of her skin. As Cat fusses and settles against him, Robb meets Sansa's gaze and sees his own fear reflected there. He is suddenly assailed by the memory of Cat's birth, at how Sansa had labored for a half-day, trying to choke back cries of pain as the midwife barked orders at him to help. And then Cat had slipped from her body, bloody and screeching at the indignity of it all, and, for the first time since Sansa told him he was going to be a father, it felt _real_.

His body aches from the cold water, but Cat is calm against him, submitting to the water being used to cool her body. Sansa paces for a few moments, clearly unsure what to do, before bending beside the tub, pressing the back of her hand against Cat's forehead.

“She's cooled some, don't you think?”

Her tiny body feels like a ball of fire but still he nods, knowing Sansa needs the comfort. She grabs cloth to dry Cat, but their daughter steadfastly refuses to let go of him. Sansa rolls her eyes in a bit of exasperation, but Robb can only smile, taking the cloth and drying them both as best he can. He carries her to the bed, settling her amongst the pillows and tucking her favorite doll into the crook of her arm; her eyes droop the moment she touches the mattress, and it is only then Robb recognizes just how cold he is. His smallclothes stick to his skin and, as he hooks his thumbs into the waistband to remove them, Sansa averts her eyes as if she has not seen him nude a thousand times, does not know what his cock tastes like on her tongue, what it feels like inside her.

The chill sticks to his skin even after dressing, and Sansa wordlessly hands him a fur as she pulls a chair near the fire for him. As he sinks down into it, he catches her by the waist; Sansa stares down at him, waiting, and Robb finds he doesn't have any words. Instead he pulls her down into his lap, her legs dangling over the arm of the chair as she lays her head in the cradle of his shoulder. Neither speaks; Robb isn't sure how long they have been sitting when Sansa falls into a restless sleep, her body exhausted after hours sitting vigil. His fingers card through her hair, so long it now brushes the small of her back, an auburn veil. 

He closes his eyes, inhaling the familiar scent of her; the sun has set when Sansa's stirring wakes him from his doze. As he blinks the sleep from his eyes, Sansa lifts her head from his shoulder. She fixes him with a stare before cupping his face, her thumb resting against his bottom lip. 

“Do you think the gods are punishing us?” 

Robb immediately shakes his head. “No. She's just sick, Sansa. Children get sick all the time.”

“But - “

“Our children are perfect,” he cuts in, his voice fierce as shame burns in his throat. “We did nothing wrong.”

Tears shimmer in Sansa's eyes as she inclines her head, their foreheads touching. “You are a beautiful liar, Robb Stark.”

Her mouth is soft and yielding as he kisses her, her lips parting to accept his tongue. The kiss is not passionate; it is not the time for that. She sighs softly as she breaks away, bestowing a series of brief, nearly chaste kisses to his lips before resolutely moving away, smoothing her skirts, her hands clenching in the fabric. He knows what she is feeling, knows it is good she has the strength he does not; it is dangerous to be like this, to forget they are only siblings now and should not take comfort in each other in this way.

Jon and Cerwyns' maester arrives before daybreak; Cat remains abed for a week but returns to her normal, energetic self with no harm done. 

Sansa's question will continue to haunt him.

* * *

One afternoon he enters his solar and finds Jeyne and Sansa seated at the table, a large book open before them, Sansa quizzing his wife on Northern houses. Jeyne blushes at what she perceives to be a failing, and Sansa calmly explains she is helping his wife understand her new home. He smiles and praises Jeyne, but something about the situation bothers him. When he mentions it to Jon, his brother looks up from polishing Longclaw and counters, “Are you bothered Jeyne needs tutoring or that her tutor is Sansa?”

It unnerves him to see Jeyne and Sansa together, but Robb does not want to admit that.

They are becoming friends; he doesn't know why it surprises him. Jeyne and Sansa are both infinitely kind, have both been at the mercy of situations others would have buckled beneath; it _should_ warm his heart that his wife and sister are growing close, especially given the unique circumstances of the situation. Jeyne is the only person at Winterfell who explicitly knows the truth of his relationship with Sansa, and her wholehearted understanding of the situation still amazes him. And yet, whenever he sees Jeyne and Sansa together, he finds himself anxious without being able to define why.

He suddenly realizes why when Sansa enters his solar when evening and unceremoniously announces, “You need an heir.”

“Excuse me?”

“You need an heir,” she repeats, taking a seat across from him. “ _The North_ needs an heir, an established succession.”

“I have heirs.”

“You have siblings, not heirs.”

“I have Ned.”

“He is not trueborn.”

“I could legitimize him.”

Sansa looks at him as if he is a child. “You have a queen, Robb, a _wife_ who would desperately like a child of her own. It is cruel to deny her it, and it is bad politics to deny the North its prince or princess.”

Setting down his pen with a sigh, he asks, “Jeyne told you this?”

“She did not have to; anyone with eyes can see the way she looks at Cat and Ned. A king needs an heir, and mayhaps a child would bridge the gap between you.”

Flushing with embarrassment, he snaps, “I do not need you to lecture me on my marriage!”

“I am not trying to _lecture_ you; I'm trying to _help_.”

“Jeyne and I do not need your help.”

Sansa rises stiffly from her chair, and Robb can see the anger flashing in her eyes, carefully tampered down as it always was. “I'm sorry if I offended you, Your Grace.”

He lies with Jeyne for the first time in a month that night, wishing he was still the boy who wed her at the Crag, wishing he did not feel disappointment when he woke in the morning to find dark hair rather than auburn scattered across his chest.

Jeyne excitedly announces she is with child three moons later; Robb pretends he does not see the way Sansa flinches at the news.

* * *

After war and years scattered to the wind, the coffers of Winterfell are low. The cost of rebuilding is far higher than expected, and soon Robb finds himself needing to find alternate means of fixing Winterfell. Sansa cautions him against raising taxes and Arya insists he not borrow from the Iron Bank; in the end, it is Maester Samwell who makes the suggestion which saves them.

Jon writes Mance Rayder on the Gift and lays out a clear proposal: the wildlings will help them to rebuild Winterfell and replenish the stores in exchange for lodging and a voice on the small council. Both Jon and Sam warn him there is a chance Mance will not bother to respond at all; there is no love lost between the Free Folk and the Northerners, and it is likely to anger his lords if he gives the wildlings as much sway as he does the true lords. But his bannermen are stretched as thinly as he is, and Mance arrives at Winterfell's gates with 200 men, women, and children.

“We are not servants, Lord Stark,” Mance Rayder tells him. “My people will be treated with respect and, when we are done, you will help us in kind.”

He does not hesitate to agree; he does not have any other options.

Jon handles most of the dealings with the Free Folk, especially the giant who fascinates Rickon to no end. There is a wildling woman – tall, blonde, beautiful – who stays close to Jon, and, when Robb asks him about her, he blushes like a maid and insists they were friends when he served on the Wall. In the south there is a queen who asked Jon to stay by her side, but Jon does not mention that; Jon's blood is as Northern as Robb's own and it is the only place they will ever be truly comfortable.

It is their treatment of Sansa which most amuses him. All of the wildlings remark on her hair, some of the children even requesting to touch it. Robb hears the description dozens of times - “kissed by fire” - and each time Sansa indulges them. When Jon explains that they believe red hair is lucky, Sansa smiles wryly and drawls, “Yes, I am known for my great luck.”

Jon chuckles; Robb does not.

He notices the wildling called Qarl a fortnight after their arrival. Tall and lean, he has a mane of unruly dark hair haphazardly decorated with braids and trinkets, a short beard covering his face; his job is to help reconstruct the glass gardens and his eyes follow Sansa everywhere she goes. At first Robb watches because he remembers Uncle Benjen's stories about wildlings stealing their wives; he confesses his concerns to Mance one afternoon, and the man assures him no one will lay a hand upon any woman at Winterfell without the woman's permission. But then Sansa starts smiling at Qarl, stopping to speak to him when she and Val sort out what to plant, and Robb begins to fret.

One evening after bidding the children goodnight, he attempts to broach the topic with Sansa. She stares at him with a blank expression before softly asking, “Am I not to have friends?”

Robb knows Qarl is more than just her friend, a suspicion which is confirmed one afternoon when he finds Sansa wrapped around her wildling in the godswood. He stands frozen near one of the weirwoods, watches as Sansa stretches up on her toes to meet his kisses; the wildling is gentler than Robb expected, holding her as if she is fragile, and Robb knows he should be grateful that this man is treating Sansa so gently.

He has never held his alcohol well, and tonight is no exception; he matches Tormund drink for drink before stumbling upstairs. It isn't planned, barging into Sansa's room, but she doesn't seemed surprised, especially when he slurs, “Did you fuck him?”

“If I did?” she challenges in that damnably quiet voice of hers. “What will you do, march into his tent and duel him for me?”

“I forbid you to fuck him.”

“Is that a royal decree or will the small council be asked for their opinions?”

“Do not mock me!” he explodes.

“Then do not act a fool!” Sansa exhales sharply, her body tense, and he knows she is coming perilously close to losing her temper; he has only seen it happen a handful of times and always it ends with tears. “Why not send me to the silent sisters? At least that way you could guarantee my bed stays empty.”

“You are a princess, and he is not good enough for you.”

“Do not dress this up as anything other than what it is: you not wanting me to love any man more than I love you.”

Even through the haze of alcohol, Robb can hear how pathetic he sounds as he whines, “You were mine first.”

“I was never meant to be yours!” Sansa shouts, tears welling in her eyes. “I was not meant to be your lover, I was not meant to bear your children! We could lie and fool ourselves in Lys, but what we have done is against everything our parents wanted for us! And if I want with Qarl what you have with Jeyne, how dare you try to shame me for it?”

“I am your king - “

“You are as bad as Petyr, wanting to keep me in a tower where only you can fuck me!”

They both freeze the moment the words leave her lips; Robb can read the regret on Sansa's face but all he can do is stumble out of her chamber. He bars his door, vomits into a basin until his body feels hollowed out, but there is nothing which will make him forget Sansa's accusation.

He leaves before dawn, giving Maester Sam a note to give to Jeyne when she wakes assuring her he will be back in time for their child's birth but a pressing issue at Deepwood Motte cannot wait. It is a lie; the issue is hardly of any importance and certainly not enough for the king to tend to it, but Robb needs to be far from Winterfell before Sansa wakes.

For the first time since rescuing Sansa from the Vale, he feels truly alone.

* * *

It is a full moon's turn before Robb returns to Winterfell and, when he does, he finds Jon has run the castle well in his stead. The glass gardens are complete, the castle is protected against the weather, and, while it is certainly not the Winterfell of his youth, it looks far better than it did when they first arrived. Cat and Ned are playing in the yard with Rickon when he rides in, and both children squeal with excitement as he scoops them into his arms. Rickon makes no effort to greet him, and, confused, he asks his youngest brother what is the matter.

“She's cried every day you've been gone, you know,” Rickon growls, Shaggydog stalking behind him. 

“I told Jeyne - “

“Not her, _Sansa_. You just left her. You always leave.”

Chastened, he enters the castle. Jon and Maester Sam tell him of the things he has missed while gone, including Bran traveling to Greywater Watch. Jeyne is in her chambers, the weight of her belly keeping her abed, and she greets him warmly, pressing his hand against her skin to feel the baby move. She summons the maids to draw him a bath, and Robb forces himself to focus on Jeyne's words rather than the restless jangle of nerves in his stomach. By supper, he is half mad with his desire to speak to Sansa, but his return to Winterfell has the hall full; when Sansa speaks, it is with Alayne's voice, cool and measured, and he will always be awed by her ability to disconnect, to hide inside herself and become someone else.

Arya may be able to change her face, but it is Sansa who can transform into whoever someone wants without so much as blinking.

It is not until the castle is abed that Sansa comes to his solar, her face drawn and pale. He has barely gotten to his feet when she rushes into his arms, squeezing as tightly as she can. Robb inhales the sweet scent of her hair, his lips brushing her temple, and it is only then he can feel how hard her body is shaking.

“You did not even say goodbye,” she whimpers, her fingers twisting in his tunic. “You left me.”

“Sansa - “

“I did not mean what I said,” she rushes on, pulling him as close to her as possible. “I was just so _angry_ , but I did not want you to go; I _never_ want you to go. I will not even _look_ at Qarl again - “

“No, Sansa,” he firmly cuts in, drawing back just enough so he can meet her gaze. “I had no right to say what I did. All I want is for you to be happy; you deserve it. If Qarl brings you happiness - “

“It wasn't about happiness.” Her cheeks glow pink as she admits, “I know it isn't right, but I envy her. Jeyne, I mean. She is your wife and so kind; I truly do not wish her ill. I want her to be the queen you need her to be, to be to you what Mother was to Father. I _try_.”

“No one could ever say you do not.”

“I miss it.” She lifts her gaze, and Robb finds his chest tightening at the emotion in her eyes. “I miss our house and the cradle you made for Cat; I miss the way you'd kiss me when you came home from work and how you'd play with my hair before you fell asleep. There are days I think we shouldn't have left, that we could have stayed and had more children. We were happy there, weren't we? Weren't you happy?”

There were days when Robb wanted for nothing in Lys, days when life was as perfect as it could ever be; yet for every one of those days, there were more which found his thoughts haunted by the past. He knows staying in Lys permanently was not an option once they knew their family lived; but nothing has dampened his want of her, years of living as man and wife coloring every moment together.

“I was happy,” he admits, the words only a half-lie.

“I do not love Qarl, but if I am to watch you live a life with Jeyne, I want some kind of life for myself.” Her touch is whisper soft as she traces the shape of his mouth; Robb shivers as her lips lightly brush against his. “Will you let me have that?”

He kisses her slowly, savoring the taste of her; Sansa's tongue licks into his mouth, moaning deep in her throat, and Robb knows this is wrong, knows they cannot do this _here_ where Jeyne sleeps down the corridor, where their parents once lived and loved. But still he reaches to raise her skirts, pushing his hips forward when Sansa begins to fumble with his laces.

“I love you, I love you, I love you,” he chants breathlessly as their hips move together, Sansa clutching him tightly, her nails raising pink lines down his back.

“Not yet, not yet,” she whimpers every time he tries to move away, clinging to him with all of her limbs. Robb is not sure how long they lie there, their clothes askew, his seed drying on her thigh.

All he knows is, for the next fortnight, Sansa will not meet his gaze; on the day Jeyne delivers a healthy baby girl they call Lyanna, Sansa announces she'd like to marry.

Amongst the ravens sent to announce the birth of Princess Lyanna Stark are ravens sent to the Great Houses concerning Sansa's request.

* * *

Even at two-and-twenty with two bastard children, Sansa Stark is still considered one of the most beautiful women in Westeros and, as such, Robb is not surprised at the interest in her hand. He and Jon both attempt to sway her towards one of the Northern suitors, but Sansa stubbornly chooses Willas Tyrell.

“You cannot leave Winterfell!” he explodes one afternoon in his solar, his temper frayed. His voice startles the others in the room, but Sansa does not flinch. Instead she looks at those assembled – Maester Sam, Jon, Bran, and Mance – and politely requests they leave them.

“I cannot stay here,” Sansa calmly declares, “and we were both stupid for thinking I could. There is no place here for me.”

“There are good, Northern men prepared to settle here - “

“It is not fair, Robb,” she cuts in, her cheeks flushing with frustration. “Jeyne is your wife, your queen, and she needs to be treated as such.”

“She is - “

“She _isn't_.” Rising from her chair, crossing to stare out at the courtyard, Sansa murmurs, “You don't hear the servants' whispers, but I do and so does Jeyne. As long as I am here, they will call me the Lady of Winterfell and smile when the children call you Papa. Is that what you want for Jeyne, for Lyanna?”

“You cannot leave,” is all he can manage, cupping her face. “You cannot take the children.”

“I must.” She reaches up, removing his hand from her skin. “I do not remember how to be your sister, Robb, and you will never be able to look at me the way you do Arya. We made our choices long ago, and now we must live with them.”

“What choices? They were taken from us, _everything_ was taken - “

“And now it is given back, so we must do what we would have done if the war had never come. You will stay at Winterfell and I will be a high lord's wife, and we will stop bringing shame to our house.” Her eyes glisten with tears but not a drop falls. “This is how it was always to be.”

Robb knows it is the truth.

It does not make the pain any less acute.

* * *

Sansa's only stipulation to the marriage is that they are wed in the godswood, and Willas Tyrell agrees. The repairs to the castle are not far enough along to host a large party from Highgarden; Willas arrives with his brothers and promises to host a grand feast when they return to the Reach. Robb bristles at the insinuation Sansa will not have a proper wedding feast and spends far too much gold on arranging a Northern feast.

If he was not marrying Sansa, Robb suspects he would like Willas Tyrell. He is well-mannered, intelligent, and looks at Sansa as if she hangs the moon; he spends a great deal of time talking to Bran, and Robb supposes there is a kinship between them, two active men who were struck down by circumstances against their control. Even the children take to the older man, Ned climbing easily into his lap while Cat is more restrained, more suspicious.

One evening, Sansa and the children sup with Willas, and, when Robb enters the room, Cat instantly leaps from her chair to run to him, shouting, “Papa!” and showering kisses upon his face. Sansa looks down at her plate, face unreadable, but Willas smiles, unconcerned.

“She loves you a great deal, your grace,” Willas says, his eyes sharp with understanding. “I fear she shall miss you ferociously.”

Robb has not begun to consider what is going to be like to be parted from his children. The last time he attempted to broach the subject with Sansa, they both ended up in tears.

The night before Sansa's wedding, Robb finds himself in the dining hall with Willas. For several minutes they discuss nothing in particular – the horses Willas is breeding, the speed of the stone masonry for the walls – when Willas proclaims, “You know I will not let any harm come to her. I have been dreaming of wedding your sister for nearly a decade.”

“She's not the girl she once was.”

“The war changed us all.”

“And she'll never stand for anyone treating her children less than the children she bears you.”

“Nor would I, your grace. Children can hardly be blamed for their circumstances.”

Robb is quiet, clenching his hand tightly around his wine cup at the insinuation before gritting out, “If you ever mistreat her, I swear to the old gods and the new: I will burn Highgarden to the ground.”

“You'll never hear a word of complaint, your grace.”

When he returns to his chamber, Robb is stunned to find Sansa seated before the fire, a shadowcat pelt wrapped around her body. He stills at the sight of her flaming hair bright against the black fur, her milky skin coming into view as she drops the skin. 

“What are you doing?”

She smiles, but Robb can see how tremulous it is, can see the way her hands are shaking. “You're the king. Don't you wish to exercise the right of First Night?”

“It is not your wedding night.”

“And I am not a maid, but we shall adapt.” Her courage falters for a moment as she asks in a broken voice, “Surely you won't send me to the Reach without being bedded by a king.”

He has her thrice that night, each time whispering his love against her skin.

* * *

Robb can hardly breathe as everything is loaded for the departure to Highgarden. The children's septa awaits to accompany the children into the litter, Ned clutching his new wooden knight, Cat cradling the fine, new doll Robb spent entirely too much money to procure. He is not sure they truly understand they will not be returning to Winterfell, that the only father they are now going to have is Willas Tyrell. Both children kiss him, and Robb hopes his sorrow does not show as he holds them tightly in his arms, whispering, “You know how much your papa loves you, right? I am with you no matter where you are.”

As the children are lifted into the litter, Robb sees Sansa completing her farewells with their siblings. She holds Rickon tightly against her chest, kissing the top of his head, swearing he is welcome at Highgarden any time he wishes, and, as they separate, Robb sees the accusations in Rickon's eyes as his baby brother glares at him. It is almost as if he can hear Rickon's thoughts: _This is your fault. You are the reason she's going away. Why isn't it you?_

Sansa says nothing as she stands before him, opening her mouth twice only to have no words; Robb does not even bother trying, simply moving forward and embracing her as tightly as he can. Finally, after several long beats, Sansa breathes against his ear, “It's better this way. We were never supposed to...It's better.”

Robb says nothing; there's nothing left to say.

Just as he had a decade earlier, just as he swore he never would again, Robb watches Sansa disappear down the kingsroad.


End file.
